Chapter 22: Brainiac
Iskander
The ochre sand swallowed the last shimmer of the Descension Chamber portal, leaving only the vast, oppressive silence of the arena. My hand, still raised in farewell, slowly lowered. The sudden emptiness was chilling.
No Renhart's gruff vigilance, no Delilah's bright chatter, no Yorick's quiet watchfulness. Just the cooling carcasses of Brass Bulls, the glassy craters of my own making, and the towering, shadowed tiers of empty seats watching like silent judges.
And Sylvia.
'Child!' Her mental voice was a whip-crack of pure, maternal anxiety, shattering the quiet. The golden will-o'-wisp zipped erratically near my shoulder, pulsing with agitated light.
'You were freaking me out! Obliterating minotaurs, taking hits that would pulp a lesser mage… I had to micromanage aether flow constantly! Healing your reckless body while trying to amplify your attacks! Do you have any idea the strain?'
The scolding was warm, familiar, and laced with a concern that chased away the chill of solitude.
And you did a wonderful job, Dragon Mama! I sent back, radiating sincere appreciation through our bond. Despite the nervous energy, I could feel her differently now.
The heavy shroud of ancient grief, the melancholic echo that had clung to her since my awakening, felt… thinner. Lighter. There was exasperation, yes, but also a vibrant thread of engagement.
She wasn't just a spectral guide anymore; she was an active participant, a co-conspirator in my chaotic existence.
This vessel, this fragile golden spark, was the first step on her path back to life, back to joy. Infinite happiness? Maybe not yet. But a spark ignited.
I sank onto a cold, stone seat in the lowest tier, the rough surface scraping against my trousers. The adrenaline ebbed, leaving a deep, bone-weary ache in its wake.
How long had it been since I'd woken in that sterile Relictombs chamber, confused and aching in a stolen body? Time here was a slippery eel.
Sylvia, I thought, gazing out at the desolate battlefield. How long do you think we've known each other? No sunrises, no seasons… just this endless, warped tomb-time.
'I wouldn't know for certain, Child,' she replied, her mental voice softer now, settling beside me like a comforting warmth. The wisp hovered near my knee. 'The Relictombs distort perception. But judging by the rhythms of your core… perhaps a week? Of our relative time, at least.'
A week. A lifetime crammed into seven distorted days. From bewildered amnesiac in a dragon-basilisk hybrid body to… whatever I was now. A weapon? An anomaly? A guy who hugged his mom's ghost-light? I leaned back, the stone cold against my spine.
Anyway… how does it feel? The wisp form? Comfortable? Strange?
'It is… different,' she admitted, the wisp pulsing thoughtfully. 'Constrained, certainly. A single point of awareness, lacking the breadth of senses I once possessed. But also… intimate. Tethered to you, feeling the flow of your aether, your emotions… it's a connection deeper than speech allowed before. Like being woven into the very fabric of your being.'
She paused. 'And surprisingly warm.'
Small talk. Alfred would have approved: he was a master of it. Caspian would have dissected its psychological nuances. A pang of sharp, unexpected homesickness lanced through me—not for the sterile hospital rooms of Iskander Hyperion, but for the people.
Alfred's steady presence, Caspian's sharp intellect… faces from a life extinguished. Here, I felt more alive than ever, yet untethered.
'Child?' Sylvia's voice cut through the melancholy. 'Your thoughts… they darkened suddenly. What is it?'
Earth, I confessed, the word heavy with unspoken history. My past life. Ghosts. But… the past is ash, Dragon Mama. We burn forward. I forced the nostalgia down, focusing on the warm pulse of light beside me.
Sylvia… I reached out, not physically, but with my focus, cradling the concept of her wisp in my mind. What is it you desire? Right now, more than anything?
The question hung in the aetheric space between us. Surprise radiated from the wisp, followed by a wave of hesitant withdrawal.
'What I desire?' Her mental voice was soft, almost shy. 'It… it isn't important, Child. This is your journey. Your life unfolding. I have already walked centuries…'
I insist, Sylvia. The thought was firm, gentle, but unwavering. I held the question open, a silent pressure through our bond.
Because dreams, Sylvia, dreams saves us, they lift us up and transform us into something better. I declared quoting the words of the Man of Steel—the superhero I wanted The Aetherman to be.
And I swear I will make every dream come true, I added.
A long pause. The arena's silence deepened, pressing in. Then, tentatively:
'Then…' Another hesitation, a flicker of vulnerability in her presence. 'Actually… I would like to go to Dicathen. Just once. To… to see a person.'
Dicathen? The continent Renhart scorned, Delilah dreamed of 'liberating'. That's tricky… Agrona's claws are sinking deep. But tricky isn't impossible.
We'll find a way. Who is this person? I leaned forward, intrigued. Wait… is it the one you gave your Beast Will to? The one you trusted with your legacy?
'...Yes,' she confirmed, and the single word resonated with a profound, deep ache.
A tidal wave of sadness and melancholic longing washed over our connection, so intense it dimmed the wisp's light momentarily. It was the sound of a door closed long ago, hinges rusted shut by time and loss.
Who are they? I pressed gently, sensing the depth of the wound. Knowing might help us find them. Give me a name, a description… anything.
'I—' The wisp pulsed violently, a spasm of pure distress. 'Nothing. Sorry.' The withdrawal was abrupt, final. A fortress slamming shut around ancient pain.
'Don't you want to explore the rest of this Zone? Scavenge? How did you call it… looting?' The forced cheerfulness in her mental tone was heartbreaking.
She was shutting down. The grief was still too raw, the memory too potent to share. Pressing would only hurt her.
Alright, Dragon Mama, I acquiesced, the warmth in my thought genuine, masking my concern. Looting it is. I pushed myself up, the weariness momentarily forgotten.
"Let's see what this Arena Zone holds for us!" I declared aloud, my voice echoing unnervingly in the vast emptiness. Action was better than dwelling on sealed sorrow.
Descending the steep steps back to the bloodied sand felt like entering a tomb within a tomb. The Brass Bulls laid where they fell, massive and grotesque in death. I checked their crude brass adornments—rings, chains, kilt plates—but they were just metal, devoid of enchantment or value.
The sand yielded nothing but shards of bone and scorched earth. The towering, silent spectator stands offered only dust and shadows.
The only unexplored path was the giant archway at the far end—the entrance the Brass Bulls had used. It yawned like a dark mouth beneath the seating tiers where the Descension portal had vanished.
Probably the only way out now, I mused, stepping towards it.
As my foot crossed the threshold, pale blue aether sconces flickered to life along the tunnel walls, casting long, dancing shadows. Definite gladiator vibes.
The thought barely formed when the illusion of calm shattered.
CRRRR-UNCH!
A visceral tearing of the world itself. Stone, sand, and debris erupted from the tunnel ceiling behind me, not ahead. Not from the Bulls' entrance, but from the solid wall beside the archway I'd just passed through. Reality receded, whimpering, before the apex predator emerging from the rubble.
'CHILD!' Sylvia's mental scream was pure, unadulterated terror. 'S-Sir GAWAIN!'
My head snapped around, blood freezing in my veins. There, stepping through a jagged hole torn in the very fabric of the arena wall, was the Dragon Puppet.
Dust swirled around his imposing figure—the chainmail, the leather tunic with its dragon and crown symbol, the silver arm plate glinting coldly in the light.
His movements were unnervingly smooth, deliberate. And his eyes… those utterly vacant, frozen blue pools… locked onto me with chilling indifference. Not recognition. Target acquisition.
Impossible. Utterly, terrifyingly impossible. Simulets dispersed Ascenders randomly across the vastness of the Relictombs! The vortex I'd created was a chaotic spatial tear!
How could anything track, follow, and tear through solid reality to appear here? Logic screamed denial, but the dread coiling in my gut was primal, absolute.
'ISKANDER, RUN!' Sylvia's voice was a desperate shriek in my mind, amplified by centuries of knowing exactly what Gawain Indrath represented.
His danger wasn't theoretical; it was etched in dragon bone and witnessed in the mangled ruin of my own body just… how long ago? Time meant nothing.
His strength had crushed my Asuran physique, his aether arts while way less diverse than mine had sliced through my defenses, his mere presence had disrupted my body. Powerless. That's what I'd been.
Panic, cold and razor-sharp, flooded my system. I didn't think. I ran. Legs fueled by pure survival instinct, augmented by pale gold aether, I launched myself deeper into the Brass Bulls' tunnel, away from the implacable figure.
'Child!' Sylvia's wisp strained violently against the aetheric tether, trying to zip back towards Gawain. 'Make me go to him! Let me protect you! Let me talk to Sir Gawain!'
Her plea was frantic, born of ancient loyalty and desperate hope. Maybe the ghost of the trainer she knew could still be reached.
NO! The refusal roared through me, pure protective fury overriding terror. I couldn't risk her. Not her light, not her fragile consciousness in that wisp. With a wrench of will, I pulled.
The golden tether snapped taut, and I mentally shoved the struggling will-o'-wisp deep into the solid aether of my own aether core.
The connection didn't sever, but it muted, wrapped in layers of my own energy, her protests becoming distant, muffled vibrations within me.
You won't do it, Sylvia! Not like this!
I ran. The tunnel walls blurred. The rhythmic thud of my boots on stone was the only sound besides my own ragged breathing. Gawain didn't run. He walked.
A steady, unhurried, terrifyingly purposeful stride. The sound of his heavy boots hitting the stone echoed behind me, measured, relentless. He wasn't chasing; he was herding.
A predator confident the prey has nowhere to go. His Asuran body, honed over millennia, was leagues beyond my stolen power. He could move like lightning if he chose. This… this was psychological torture. The mouse and the cat, where the cat was a fallen god.
The tunnel stretched, the aether sconces casting their cold, unwavering light. Hope, fragile and stupid, flickered. Maybe it curved, maybe it opened up…
Then, abruptly, my face slammed into unyielding stone. Pain exploded across my nose and forehead. Stars danced in my vision.
"FUCK!" The curse ripped from me, raw and furious. I stumbled back, clutching my face, feeling warm blood trickle from my nose. The aether flow instantly stemmed it, knitting the cartilage, but the shock remained. I stared, disbelieving, at the solid wall. A dead end.
"What is the meaning of this?! Where did those bulls come from?!" The question was a scream of frustration at the tomb's capricious, illogical cruelty.
The Relictombs. Reality was a suggestion here. Physics, a polite guideline often ignored. Built by Ancient Mages wielding aether with mastery I couldn't even fathom—mages who could create pocket dimensions, weave impossible challenges, trap dragons.
And I, with my fledgling core and single Goldrune, had dared to think I understood? Hubris. Fatal hubris.
I could feel Sylvia's muted presence thrashing within my core, a trapped bird beating against glass.
I am sorry, Dragon Mama, I thought, the apology thick with regret and renewed determination. But I will get us out. I swear it. I turned slowly, my back pressed against the cold, unforgiving wall.
Gawain stood at the far end of the tunnel, perhaps fifty yards away. He had stopped walking. Just stood there. Vacant eyes fixed on me. Waiting.
No vortex this time. No grand escape. Only confrontation. Creation, I thought, the name a prayer and a command. Don't fail me now. A plan, desperate and born of pure instinct, formed. I wouldn't run from him. I'd run at him.
I pushed off the wall. Aether surged, not just in my legs, but through my palms. I didn't form weapons. I formed shields. As I sprinted towards the living nightmare, I slammed my right palm against the tunnel floor.
Pale gold light erupted, coalescing instantly into a solid, curved barrier of shimmering aether, taller than me, appearing directly in Gawain's path. Not to stop him. To deflect.
His greatsword moved, a blur of metal. It struck the golden shield not with a clang, but with a sound like shattering crystal. The barrier dissolved into glittering motes. But it bought me a fraction of a second.
I ducked low, using the momentum of my charge, rolling beneath the space where the shield had been, coming up beside him, so close I could smell the dust and ancient leather of his tunic.
I ran. Past him, back towards the arena, pouring every ounce of speed I had into my legs. I… I created a construct! The realization sang through me, a spark of elation amidst the terror.
Solid light! As I cleared him, I threw my left hand back, palm open. Another shield, thicker this time, materialized in the tunnel mouth behind me, sealing it with a wall of solid gold light. A barricade. A delay.
CRACK!
The sound was the death knell of hope. Gawain's sword struck the second shield. It held for a microsecond longer than the first, spider-webbing with light, then exploded into nothingness. He stepped through the dissipating energy, utterly unfazed.
Then, agony. White-hot, annihilating. Not a cut, not an impact. A voiding. My left leg, from the knee down, simply… ceased to exist.
One moment it was there, propelling me forward. The next, there was nothing but searing absence and a spray of blood and vaporized tissue. I crashed face-first onto the tunnel floor, momentum skidding me through my own gore.
The pain was a delayed thunderclap, a wave of nausea and shock so profound it blanked my mind.
'CHILD!' Sylvia's scream tore free as I instinctively released my mental grip on her containment. The golden wisp burst from my chest, flaring with frantic light. She immediately channeled aether, not into attack, but into furious regeneration.
The raw power flooded the stump, pale gold light weaving bone, muscle, sinew, skin with terrifying speed. But it took focus. Precious seconds.
W-what happened…? The thought was sluggish, stunned. I didn't see anything… no sword, no projectile…
'Mana!' Sylvia's voice was sharp, terrified. 'Pure mana! Dragon mana, in its most refined, lethal form! Invisible to you without a mana core!'
Pure mana. Invisible death. My advantage nullified. My body, even with Sylvia's frantic healing, was vulnerable in ways I couldn't perceive.
My tongue clicked against my teeth, a sound of pure frustration. Elemental spells... those I could see—Delilah's fire, Renhart's shield.
But raw, refined mana? As invisible as my aether strikes were to others. The symmetry was cruel.
'Child, we need to go! Now!' Sylvia urged, the wisp darting around my reforming leg. Gathering the remnants of my focus, ignoring the phantom agony of the vanished limb and the searing pain of rapid regeneration, I reached deep into my core.
Creation! Tear us a path! I slammed both palms onto the tunnel floor, pouring power outwards. The air before me ripped. Not a gentle tear, but a violent gash in reality, swirling with chaotic golden and bruised purple energy. A vortex, unstable, desperate.
Gawain reacted. Not with haste, but with terrifying, preternatural awareness. He knew the move. His booted foot stomped down on the stone floor. The impact wasn't physical force; it was spatial command.
The floor beneath his foot sank, compacting instantly, providing a perfect launch point. He exploded forward, not a run, but a teleport-assisted lunge, covering the distance between us in less than a heartbeat.
My eyes widened, true terror seizing me. He was here. Towering over me as I knelt, one leg still half-formed, hands pressed to the forming vortex. The cold, dead blue eyes held no malice, only purpose.
His greatsword lifted. Aether flared along the blade, warping the air around it.
He thrust at the forming vortex. The blade passed through the chaotic energy as if it were smoke. The vortex shuddered, the swirling colors stuttering, then imploded with a soundless concussion that punched the air from my lungs. The escape route vanished.
Simultaneously, his other hand moved. A casual, almost dismissive backhand sweep of the blade towards my raised, shield-forming arms. I saw it coming.
I tried to block, to reinforce with aether. But the edge didn't cut; it phased. It passed through my crossed forearms like they were mist. No impact. Just… separation.
A strange numbness. Then the hot spill of blood. I looked down. My forearms, from just below the elbows, lay severed on the tunnel floor. Clean cuts. No pain yet, just shock and the horrifying sight of pale bone and glistening muscle in the stumps.
My hands… my tools… gone.
'CHILD!' Sylvia shrieked, a sound of pure horror. Without my conscious direction, without hands to channel, her ability to help offensively was crippled.
She could only pour healing energy into the stumps, stemming the blood flow, initiating agonizingly slow regeneration. Aether knit flesh, but bone took longer.
I was disarmed. Literally.
I tried a desperate kick with my nearly reformed leg, aiming for his knee. Futile. Gawain simply pressed his foot down onto my chest. Not a stomp. A pin.
An immovable weight, like a mountain settling. All breath left me in a pained gasp. Ribs creaked in protest.
This… this was the true weight of an Asura. Not just strength, but an authority over reality that pressed down, crushing hope. He could disrupt my core's flow, slow my regeneration to a crawl. He could wield mana I couldn't see and aether I couldn't counter.
His free hand reached down, the silver gauntlet gleaming. It closed around my throat, not squeezing, but lifting. Effortlessly.
He raised me off the ground, my severed arms dangling uselessly, my regenerating leg kicking feebly. I dangled like a broken puppet, staring into those empty, frozen eyes.
Death's gaze.
Sylvia's wisp flared with desperate, golden light against my chest, trapped beneath his grip, pouring everything into keeping me conscious, fighting the suffocating pressure and the disruption he exerted on my core.
'Child! Don't close your eyes!' Sylvia's voice was a frantic whisper in the narrowing tunnel of my awareness. 'Stay with me! FIGHT!'
Gawain's other hand, still holding the greatsword, shifted. The tip pointed towards my chest, towards the flaring light of Sylvia's wisp.
This was it. Oblivion. For both of us. I strained against the impossible grip, against the crushing weight of his power, against the despair. Sylvia's light pulsed against my skin, a final, defiant heartbeat.
Then, a voice. Calm. Ancient. Utterly authoritative, cutting through the tension like a knife through silk.
"Halt, Gawain."
The command vibrated in the stone, in the air, in my very bones. It held no anger, only absolute expectation of obedience.
"We have tested the Being of Aether and Flesh enough."